You are Dangerous
by Kat Harrcolys
Summary: He finds her in the large plush armchair, the bottle drained of all its delicious, intoxicating liquid and the prescription bottle tipped over on the end table, pills scattered across its surface. Hannidelia/Bedannibal. Atths. One shot.


A/N: I don't own Hannibal! But a Hannidelia/Bedannibal porn flick would be life, Ijs. Please tell me what you thought of my little story :)

**You are Dangerous**

Hannibal raises his knuckles and knocks on the hardwood of her front door. Once. Twice. His attendance is unannounced and yet he's there. The door opens easily, as if she hoped, _knew,_ that he would come.

He finds her in the large plush armchair, the bottle drained of all its delicious, intoxicating liquid and the prescription bottle tipped over on the end table, pills scattered across its surface. "Bedelia," he begins sadly. She notices his presence and begins to stand, her body unsteady in her black high-heeled shoes. She's not sure if it's the liquor or the sleeping medication she took just over an hour ago. She takes a step and stumbles, and he has his arms around her torso, holding her up. She should make him leave. He is _dangerous_. But she lets him press her to his chest, into the thick fabric of his expensive suit. It is then he feels her begin to shake in his arms and hold his suit jacket tight in her tiny hands. "I cannot leave my home," she slurs through ragged breathes, and he dips his face into her hair, taking in her scent. "Pathetic," she murmurs to herself.

"How many pills have you taken?"

"Only two," she whispers. She doesn't need to tell him how tempting the whole bottle was. How she had the third, fourth and fifth pill in her palm before reconsidering. How wretched her career, her life is- how pitiful she has become. He holds her there, breaths in the warmth of another-_so close, so close_. She hasn't had the companionship of another's body for a year, hasn't let anyone get near since the attack, he knows. He lets her nuzzle his chest, knowing that her professional walls have crumbled due to inebriation. He begins to feel her hands soften and her body begins to go slack- the medication and liquor truly taking effect. He hoists her, as if she's his bride and begins to carry her to her bedroom, awakening anger inside her.

"Put me-now-", she's slurring incomplete thoughts, her head lolling back and forth atop her shoulders, eyes groggily opening and closing. She slaps at his chest as he laughs at her, as she slowly kicks her foot, losing a shoe. She will not be carried in her own home. Before she can create a formal complaint he's in the bed, and he's lying next to her. And he's so warm. So she sleeps.

* * *

She wakes on her side, bleary-eyed but warm. Warm. His hand is over her torso, her hands wrapped in his. She's wearing the same clothes as last evening, her shirt rumbled. Her head throbs and her body aches but she tries out her voice anyway, whispering his name into the pillow.

"Bedelia," he responds. Her thoughts are coming back and she needs him to leave. Needs him to _forget_ this happened. Forget has let him this near. Forget that she lives with emotions-she's forgotten for too long that she's alive to be reminded now. He is her patient, and this is improper. It's indecent and-and it feels so right. What has she done in her folly? As if sensing her train of thoughts he continues, his voice deep and throaty from the morning. "You worried me. I couldn't leave you in your previous state." It feels right, lying in bed with him, his body against hers; the vibrations of his voice in her hair. He cares about her.

She does something that surprises him, then. She brings his hand to her lips and kisses it. "Thank you." He responds by turning her to look at him. Her eyes are azure and puffy. She leans in, deciding that it was nice to have someone climb the walls she built around herself. Someone to _see _her, in her deepest ugliness and still lay next to her. Propriety didn't save her from her attack and wouldn't help her now. She decided.

Her kiss is feather-light against his lips, as if she fears he will stumble from the bed in disgust. Instead he leans in, his lips pressed firmly against hers. His tongue runs across her lips and she opens her lips, allowing him into her mouth. His hand drags up the length of her body to hold her head, but she feels it first on her neck. She feels the cool air and his hand and her neck, resting on the jagged scar that resides there. She's suddenly panicked. Terrified. She feels like she's choking, that she can't breathe, despite his soft touch. Her tiny hands press forcefully against his chest, disconnecting from his embrace. She's jolts up from the bed, and scurries from his touch, beginning to hyperventilate as she does so.

Safe in her bathroom, the door locked, she sits on the toilet seat. She's doing the breathing exercises she used to preach to her patients and finds them utterly useless. Such a hypocrite she is. Tears are silently spilling from her eyes as she remembers hands and her ruined clothing. Books clattering. Feeling her flesh pierced as she was pushed through the glass table in her office. She closes her eyes and blocks out the thoughts. Finally she opens her eyes and returns to reality.

She touches her trembling fingers to her lips, remembering the feel of his lips against her, his hand in hers, his tongue dragging across the roof of her mouth.

When she opens the door, he is gone, as expected.

* * *

Soon, their sessions stop and he's casually having conversations with her over wine. Their kiss hasn't been discussed, but she sees his eyes linger on her lips as she speaks. Her blouse is cut low, as if to entice him.

It is when he brings dinner to her home again, her own feast for missing his dinner party, that she feels his touch once again. They have finished their meal and she rises to clear the table. When she reaches to grab his plate, her cleavage exposed to him, he runs his fingers lightly over her wrist, enclosing around it. She smiles demurely as he takes the plate from her hand and kisses her knuckles, a gesture she's kept locked away for months. He pushes his chair back and stands, towering over her as he kisses her knuckles again, looking into her eyes, pupils dilated-aroused. His lips are on hers again, their once chaste kiss replaced for greedy, hungry lip locks. Her body is pressed against the dining room table and she doesn't want just his kisses. She's treading into dangerous territory. She knows she's past the point of no return, and wonders if she should be feeling aroused by that.

Her blouse and bra are quickly disposed on the floor while she frustrates herself with his jacket, his vest- she stops when she's lifted onto the table. Her areola slips into his mouth and his hand slips under her skirt. He slides her panties to the side and slips a curious finger into her, as his tongue swirls her hard nipple. She tugs at his shirt, mumbling "off" as she pulls down the fabic and he responds by sliding a second finger into her, his thumb sliding over her clitoris. She moans loudly, and lifts her hips, as his fingers slide deeper into her body, between her saturated folds. _Don't stop._ She's grabbing at his hair, mussing it-hips begging him not to stop, that she's close, when he withdraws his fingers, sliding his fingers down her thigh as she lifts for him to remove her skirt and panties, his fingers scraping and pulling at the skirt and black lace. His tongue, no longer occupied with her breast, slithers down her chest and nips at her pelvic bone before sliding into her. Her eyes roll and her hand shoots to the back of his head, holding him firmly in place. _There. Right there. Danger. God. _Her other hand fumbles back, knocking a dish to the floor and she mumbles 'fuck' as he chuckles, the vibration causing her body to tense. Her toes curl, and she mews, her breath ragged, her chest heaving. He laps at the fluids, riding the contractions of her walls with her, tongue still swirling.

When he arises, she's splayed on the table before him like a delicacy. She's smiling and her breasts heave as she breathes. He bends to kiss her, the taste of her ecstasy still on his tongue and she's biting his lip, removing his belt and slipping her hand into his pants, wrapping her hands firmly against his erection, and urging him into her.

As he slides into her folds he lets out a moan, and nuzzles his head into her neck. She tenses and her fingers dig into the skin of his back, closes her eyes, the terror creeping up on her like a phantom in the night. The memories._ Bloodied shirt. Letter opener. Broken ankle._ The thought of her mutilated neck, exposed for him to see; to repulse him. He licks her scar, thrusting into her, muttering the words 'beautiful,' 'I've got you, 'safe.' He is dangerous, and yet when he whispers 'safe,' she believes him. She feels safe.

She's meeting his thrusts and wraps her legs around his back, pulling him closer, like a second skin, like a person-suit. She wants all of him. His thrusts continue until she hears his muffled moan in her ear, the vibrations over the ruined skin of her neck. He fills her and she lets out a cry of her own, his breath hot on her neck, in her hair, his skin smooth and slick against her. She holds him closer, both panting, and realizes just how dangerous this is.

They lay there, his body breathing against hers. Warm. So warm. She is warm. When he pulls out from her, liquids oozing onto her thighs and down the wooden dinner table, she can still feel him. She still feels safe under his touch.

He is dangerous. _This _is dangerous. _They are dangerous. _

She finds that she no longer cares.


End file.
